


Dwelling on Dreams

by FawkesFons



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Blood As Lube, Blood Kink, Blood Magic, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Misguided Albus Dumbledore, Oblivious Albus Dumbledore, POV Albus Dumbledore, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teenage Dorks, Teenage Drama, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Young Albus Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2019-06-25 21:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15649449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FawkesFons/pseuds/FawkesFons
Summary: The Tri-wizard Tournament has descended upon Hogwarts in Albus’ seventh year and derailed his mind and heart."Albus felt pulled apart by each boy’s opposing influence. Doge had been his closest friend ever since their first year. They were even planning an adventure across Europe together once they’d graduated. But he had a habit of jealousy when it came to Albus straying too far from his company. And though he pretended to himself that he couldn’t think why Doge would act this way, it was in moments like these that his suspicions about Doge’s intentions came dangerously close to clarity. The possible consequences troubled him. So he put them out of his mind. Mortimer was an altogether more favorable thought. It was one thing to come together with someone by happenstance, like he had with Doge. It was entirely another when that someone chose you above many other candidates."





	1. An Evening of Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Written before anyone knew "Cursed Child" was coming, or that "Fantastic Beasts" would be a thing, so technically this is an AU (maybe?) where the Tri-Wizard Tournament is being held in Albus' 7th year at Hogwarts.
> 
> This is the more vicious version of the tournament obliquely mentioned in "Goblet of Fire," before they put in all the rules, so there's a very "Hunger Games"-ian tone to them.

 

The Great Hall was abuzz with chatter and the clang of silverware on plates as Albus inched his lanky frame between the double doors, walking past the Gryffindor table toward the Ravenclaw table on the other end of the hall. He patted his pocket for what must have been the tenth time since he left the Troll’s Leg in Hogsmeade, went in the back then out the front of the Three Broomsticks, and sprinted all the way to the castle. The hovering candles wafted gently against the enchanted ceiling, tracing mysterious rivulets in the air, never repeating, as if they could hear the music in his heart and were waltzing along. A truly singular piece of magic that Albus knew could never be replicated anywhere else again. Everything felt possible now, because he was home.

“Pomegranate?” Doge offered.

“Is there nothing else?” Albus said, squeezing into the seat next to his portly friend.

“Take it, it’s the only edible thing off this plate,” Doge replied glumly, “it’s a Japanese dish of eggplant and seared tuna with pomegranate garnishes.” He pointed to a silver platter heaped with square pink slabs in a nest of purple oblongs and red accents, “Truly, take it, it’s the last one.”

“Have you offered it to our honorable guests?” Albus said, pointedly smiling toward the row of somber faced students dominating the far end of the table.

“Them? No, they won’t touch anything they haven’t brought themselves so we’re condemned to eat the food we only made especially for them, as a sign of good sportsmanship, mind you,” Doge exclaimed as Albus looped a length of ribbon round his shoulder length red hair, drawing it back into a plait. Letting Elphias Doge expound on a subject until he exhausted it was the safest way not to offend him, and after six years Albus had learned how to stretch his patience. “Meanwhile they protest that it’s a tradition of theirs, no hard feelings! Even though everyone knows it’s just a tactic for the Tournament. Well, what am I saying really, everything is a tactic for the Tournament these days.”

Albus nodded nonchalantly as he pulled a plate of lamb cutlets toward him, resisting the urge to pat his pocket again. “Be still,” he chanted to himself, “it’s alright, he can’t know. No one knows.” “They think we’ll poison them, I expect,” Doge continued, “as if we’d need to. Hogwarts will triumph in the end entirely on our strength of skill. And when that happens, I’ll be sure to gorge myself on a steak and kidney pie right in front of their self-serious noses.”

“A toast to your indomitable school spirit, Doge,” Albus said, downing a goblet of pumpkin juice and digging into his dinner. On the opposite side of the table, the invited students from the Mahoutokoro Preparatory School and Camp—Hogwarts’ Japanese counterpart—were engrossed in their bundles of seaweed wrapped rice. Murmuring. Plotting.

The Tri-wizard Tournament had descended upon Hogwarts in Albus’ seventh year and derailed all other activities. He had been steeling himself to face his final year with aplomb and measured excitement, only to find out that it would be interrupted with clamoring crowds and clashing champions. While the rest of the seventh years agreed that hosting the Tournament would finally bring some excitement to life at the castle, Albus and Doge were in the minority for feeling that a normal year of N.E.W.T’s would have been much more preferable. Though, even they had to admit, the Tasks were thrilling.

The First Task had already passed and the victory had gone to the delegation from the Durmstrang Institute, whose Champion had delivered a spectacular showing that polarized the watching public. Despite its grotesquery, no one looked away when the boy suddenly whipped a tongue of fiendfyre from his wand and lashed the lion’s head off a Chimera. It was a daring bit of dark magic that was, nonetheless, considered in poor taste. But he was a handsome, flaxen haired boy of seventeen who wore a smile more easily than his ruthlessness would suggest, and so the focus it took to produce the spell was prized over its unpopularity, and the boy emerged victorious. When his score was called, he ripped the snake-tail off the Chimera’s flank and wore it around his neck as a trophy, pumping his fist in the air and howling over the crowd. And their applause was deafening. His name was Gellert Grindelwald.

“Good that, eh?” said a voice over Albus’ shoulder.

“At last,” Albus managed to choke around his mouthful of raspberry almond biscuits, only just saving himself the embarrassment of sugar glaze drooling down his chin.  
“Hungry, I see” Mortimer said with a smile. He was wearing his navy blue Quidditch robes, a broom slung over his shoulder. His cheeks flushed red and great hanks of his soft brown hair dripped with sweat.

“Where’ve you been?” Albus asked.

“Some of us Ravenclaws and a couple of Hufflepuffs wanted to get back on the Quidditch pitch, so we played a few rounds. I’m sore down to my bones, I swear I am,” he said, chuckling as he scratched his midriff. He reached for the last pomegranate Doge had offered and tore into it, tongue squelching as he chewed, “You looking for me?”

“I’ve got it,” Albus told him excitedly.

“No!” Mortimer gasped, wide eyed.

Albus smiled, “Right here, yes.”

“Give it to me.”

“Wait, though—”

“Why?”

“Can’t you two philanderers plot your games somewhere else?” wailed Doge.

“C’mon Al,” Mortimer took Albus by the arm, “let’s leave Doughy Doge to his dinner. We’ve got work to do.”

Albus turned apologetically to Doge, “I’ll be right—”

“No, go on Al,” Doge spat, using Mortimer’s nickname for him, which he knew Albus secretly hated, “I’m happy to have been nothing more than your dinner entertainment.”

“Don’t be like that—”

“A pleasure as always, Mr. Adler,” Doge cut in sarcastically, “to see you working so diligently with your Lateral. Again. For what feels like the hundredth time this week. All for the glory of Hogwarts, of course!” He was shouting so that several Ravenclaws looked up from their conversations to see Mortimer ushering Albus, a bit roughly, out the doors of the great hall.

Though Doge was prone to hyperbole he had not been exaggerating about how often Albus seemed to be meeting his new friend. Of all the things staking a claim on his daylight hours—classes, homework, studying for N.E.W.T.’s, Transfiguration research, and his personal academic pursuits— assisting Mortimer Adler in his bid as Hogwarts champion was becoming the obsession that would thwart them all if he wasn’t more careful. Before the Tournament, Albus had been attracted to Mortimer in a way he freely admitted was flighty and unscrupulous. He’d spent many an hour with Doge balancing textbooks on shivering knees in the Quidditch stands while the Ravenclaws ran drills, cheering far too loudly when they saw the tiny dot with “Adler” on its robes send a bludger soaring across the field with a wide swing of his Beater’s club. But things had taken a turn for the unexpected the night Mortimer’s name ascended from the Goblet of Fire.

Upon being anointed, champions, in consultation with their respective headmasters, chose two of their peers to compete alongside them as a team representing their school. There were two Laterals to each Champion, a Second and a Scribe: the former to train alongside the Champion and step in should the Champion lose his life, the latter to assist in research and coaching to prepare the Champion for the Task ahead. Impressed with his prowess in Transfiguration classes, not to mention his two published articles in _Transfiguration Today_ , Mortimer chose Albus as his Scribe.

Albus was livid with Doge now. Of course he wanted to spend time with him, but not if he was going to harbor such vitriol toward Mortimer. Albus felt pulled apart by each boy’s opposing influence. Doge had been his closest friend ever since their first year. They were even planning an adventure across Europe together once they’d graduated. But he had a habit of jealousy when it came to Albus straying too far from his company. And though he pretended to himself that he couldn’t think why Doge would act this way, it was in moments like these that his suspicions about Doge’s intentions came dangerously close to clarity. The possible consequences troubled him. So he put them out of his mind. Mortimer was an altogether more favorable thought. It was one thing to come together with someone by happenstance, like he had with Doge. It was entirely another when that someone chose you above many other candidates.

“What a complete prat he is,” Mortimer said as they gained the deserted entrance hall.

“No need to be unkind, he’s only jealous. It’ll pass.”

“Do you think anyone heard him?”

“I shouldn’t think it’s a problem. It’s true; after all, we have been working together a lot. People are bound to have noticed.”

“That’s not good.”

“What do you mean?”

He’d been dropping small comments like this for a while now, taking on a conspiratorial air every time they met that made Albus feel invisible. Like Mortimer was talking to himself about something he wouldn’t come clean about. The constant problem of sharing a bond that survived on the condition that it remains unspoken.

“Well, I only meant that I don’t want anyone catching on to our plan,” he said as they came to a stop in the secluded alcove beneath the grand staircase. Under the canopy of marble, shadows encouraged proximity and whispers. “Show it to me,” he commanded.

From out of his pocket Albus produced a small glass vial reinforced by copper filigree around its belly and secured with a leather stopper. The contents sloshed around inside, viscous and sanguine, so red it was almost black.

“That’s what dragon’s blood looks like?” Mortimer asked breathily.

“Yes,” Albus confirmed, just as transfixed by the liquid, “He tried to overcharge me, some nonsense about a handling fee, but I talked him down to size so we’re still alright on money.”

“Good,” he said, reaching for the vial.

“Please be patient,” Albus crooned quietly, staying Mortimer’s hand with his own and replacing the vial in his pocket, “There are still all kinds of precautions we need to take.”

“You mean I can’t just swallow it right off?”

“Of course not, we haven’t any idea what will happen if you do! We’re already betting our whole strategy on an educated guess, and I’d rather not gamble your life on something this untested, and—” Mortimer blinked patiently at him from under his heavy brows “—you’re laughing at me.”

“I am,” Mortimer demurred, “But now that I know how stupid you really think I am...” he joked throwing him a wink. Their fingers were still loosely intertwined. Neither noticed. “When do you think we’ll know how it works?”

“I’ll test it until I’m satisfied, compare notes with, well, a colleague of mine. Then it should be alright for you to ingest.”

“A colleague, what do you mean?”

It had slipped out, unbidden. He tried to cover, “No need to worry, it’s just someone who’s learned in these matters. I go to him when I need second opinions.”

“You’ve been telling other people about this?”

“No, only for this. It’s very dangerous what we’re trying to do here.”

Mortimer’s voice intensified, “I know that, Al. You think there’s anyone who knows that better than me right now? I’m looking out for myself, all right. I’m a target!” He’d crossed his arms now, pursing his lips with displeasure. “What’re you playing at here? You haven’t turned on me have you?”

It was Albus’ turn to feel wronged, “Do you know what it cost me to bring something like this to you? You’re losing your head over nothing. Me, turn on you? I will not respond to accusations like these, not after four months of work together,” he moved to go but stopped when Mortimer threw a heavy arm up to the marble behind Albus’ head.

“Please don’t go,” he said, downcast. “I’m sorry, I’m being...” His arm closed off the rest of the hall so that they were alone in their alcove, a block of muscle hanging above Albus like a precarious anvil. He welcomed the thought. Suddenly, Mortimer took Albus into his arms, the breadth of his chest and shoulders enveloping him in his scent, putting Albus in mind of Christmas chestnuts. He placed his palm on Mortimer’s ribs and found the heart beneath his muscles beating sickly fast.

“You’re life is at stake,” he reasoned, “I couldn’t imagine how you must be feeling.”

“Afraid,” he murmured into Albus’ neck, “the only thing keeping me sane is knowing I have a trustworthy Scribe at my back, taking care of me.” He couldn’t help relishing the warmth that spread to his fingertips every time Mortimer spoke to him like this. He had a laddish, jocular charm that practically magnetized friends to him in the every day, but this tenderness was thick and alive only between them. The bond, unspoken, lurking in the corners of his mouth, the knowing in his golden-eyed gaze.

“Frightfully sorry but dinner’s just let out,” said Doge, startling them.

Because his hand was still on Mortimer’s chest, Albus felt the lurch of panic that rent through him as he dropped the arm that shielded them from view and took an enormous step backward. Doge was standing there, the doors to the great hall open behind him, jammed with students heading back to their common rooms after dinner. Albus hadn’t even heard them.

“Damn it, hasn’t anybody taught you to mind your own?!” Mortimer leered at Doge. “Send me an owl once you know,” he said to Albus without looking at him, and stalked off into the crowd without another word.

Albus rounded on Doge, “What did you go and do that for?”

“What is it he’s made you do?” Doge asked seriously.

“Listen, I’ve already said I’m sorry about not being able to see you as often, must you punish me for it as well?” He was dangerously close to shouting and he didn’t want to shout at his friend. “He hasn’t made me do anything, we’re working on this together. The Tournament isn’t like another game of Quidditch, you know.”

“A lecture on sports from Albus Dumbledore, I must be dreaming.”

“Joke all you like,” Albus huffed as he pushed past Doge and started up the staircase, “but he could end up dead if I’m not careful of him.”

Doge followed behind Albus, hissing in his ear as they wove through the crowds toward Gryffindor tower, “Look, misplace your rage upon me if you must, but I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t need me to warn you when you’re running away with yourself.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” retorted Albus, climbing another flight of stairs.

“Good, so then you know already, that he’s playing you for a fool.”

“I—” for a moment, he couldn’t speak and walk at the same time. It was like everything Doge said became white noise as it reached his ears. Nonsensical. Baseless. “I cannot talk with you when you’re like this, I really just can’t stand to be in your presence,” Albus said, barreling into a corridor hidden behind a tapestry.

“You’re telling me you don’t find him a bit too sentimental? The way he simpers about you, Albus, it’s entirely too much. You’re still doing all the work and he’s having all the fun. He’s toying with you and I can see it driving you mad.”

They’d arrived at the portrait of Bowman Wright—known for inventing the golden snitch— that guarded the entrance to Gryffindor tower. He was a jovial old man with a cloud of white beard and a squat wizard hat, around which a snitch flitted happily.

“ _Abnegatio_ ,” was the password and Albus leaped through the portrait hole as soon as the painting cleared it, wanting to be as far as possible from this argument. But when he reached the sanctuary of the boy’s dormitory it was to find that the door he’d wanted the satisfaction of slamming only bounced right back again, permitting Doge to enter the room.

“We’re alone now, out with it.”

“No.”

“Yell at me, I can tell you want to.”

“Fine then,” Albus gave in, “essentially what you’re saying to me is that it isn’t possible for Mortimer to mean it when he says he loves me?”

Doge’s mouth fell open just a bit, “Has he said that to you?”

He pushed his glasses up his long nose, “Yes.”

“Those words?”

“Yes! Is it so unbelievable?” He could feel a headache coming on.

“It is, frankly. That the Quidditch darling and Champion of the school is infatuated with you just now, in his most dire hour of need, when he’s previously shown no interest at all in people like you and me...”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Albus didn’t look at him, choosing instead to tear the ribbon out of his hair, letting it fly. He felt suffocated.

“When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When he escorted me to the Yule Ball. The evening didn’t start like...that. He told everyone he only took me because it was the only way to guard me against sabotage from the other Champions. He was talking and dancing with girls all night, in fact. Until he drank too much firewhiskey. I got him back to his dormitory safe and sound, and just as I was about to leave, that...that was when he said it.”

Doge had taken a seat on Albus’ bed, twiddling his pudgy thumbs and thinking until he finally said, “How much firewhiskey had he had?”

Albus’ brows knit instantly, “This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew this is how you’d react,” he said, launching into something he knew he might regret, “because I knew you’d hate the thought of someone else caring for me and you’d want to destroy it.”

Doge took a moment to breathe, “Well, it’s a wonder you still count me as a friend at all, for how deceitful you find me to be,” he said. Albus threw himself onto the bed too, all the fight having gone out of him and replaced with a deep fatigue and blistering headache.

“I’m only trying to show you what you can’t seem to see on your own,” Doge whispered. Then, after a moment of silence passed between them he ventured into unknown territory by opening a door that could not close. “You should know that I love you,” he said, “not platonically, romantically. I have ever since the first day you talked to me on the Hogwarts Express, even though I had dragon pox and everyone laughed at me. They still laugh at me. But you’re still here. You’ve never gone away, and I never want you to,” Albus was so stunned he let him continue. “If that’s not been clear to you in the last few years, then the onus of that is on me. And now, my greatest regret will always be that I gave away my only chance to let you know how special you are.”

He had known. He had always known, almost from the moment their friendship began, that Doge was nursing a secret infatuation with him. But he had never thought it could actually be love. He looked up into Doge’s light blue eyes now and saw in them that it was completely true. “What on earth,” he thought, “are we supposed to do now?”

A staccato rapping at the window intruded on their moment.

A gray screech owl was bobbing in and out of view outside, requesting entry to the dormitory via the window on the far side of the room. Albus waved his wand with a lazy “Alohomora” and was surprised to find the owl fly in and perch on his shoulder, a small note tied to its talon. He unraveled it and read quickly, recognizing the hand writing instantly. His colleague had requested a visit.

“I have to go,” he said to Doge softly. And it was a sign of their deep bond that, despite the horrible timing, each had heard what the other had to say and would consider it thoroughly before they saw each other next.

They parted with a hug.


	2. A Night to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...his voice softened, “I’ve come to know you to be a giving person, Albus. He’s abusing your talents to prop up his victories.”
> 
> Albus laughed again, glancing out the windows at the shimmering lake below. “That is exactly, to the letter, what Doge said to me.”
> 
> “The friend you cannot love.”
> 
> “Yes.”
> 
> “Could you love me, do you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things finally get racy in this one.
> 
> Written before anyone knew "Cursed Child" was coming, or that "Fantastic Beasts" would be a thing, so technically this is an AU (maybe?) where the Tri-Wizard Tournament is being held in Albus' 7th year at Hogwarts.
> 
> This is the more vicious version of the tournament obliquely mentioned in "Goblet of Fire," before they put in all the rules, so there's a very "Hunger Games"-ian tone to them.

*          *          *

 

" **De Guiche:**  You’re not totally immune to me, are you? Why else would you concoct such a delicious revenge? It must be a gesture of love.

**Roxane:**  Believe me, it is."

_Edmond Rostand_ , _Cyrano de Bergerac_

 

 

Green swaths of grass were already peering out from between dwindling snow banks on the grounds as Albus trekked toward the lake under the moonlight. Pinpricks of light from portholes on the Durmstrang ship cut through the fog of night and served to guide him to his destination. He drew his cloak closely about him as he navigated the winding steps down into the secluded bay where the rowboats that carried first years on their trip across the lake were kept. Scattering pebbles, he cast off from the beach, through the rough curtain of brambles that would soon bloom with leaves, out onto the iron blue lake. His oars sliced into the sleek surface, setting off ripples that lapped at ice flows. As a Prefect being seen would not be a problem, rather, it was who he was going to see that he wanted kept secret. Just for now.

Albus’ correspondence with Gellert Grindelwald had begun as a matter of course. Their forced proximity under the spotlight of the Tournament saw them shunted into countless rooms in front of dozens of faceless judges, and after their performed schoolyard animosity lost its glamour, there was nothing to do but make conversation. Conversation turned to laughter, which found its way into letters by owl, through which a deep respect began to flower. Champions and their Laterals were constantly stalked by onlookers seeking to bask in their glow, reflecting a limelight that formed a fishbowl around the Champions and held them captive, with no recourse but to smile and wave as a warped sort of cabin fever sewed suspicion and overt hate amongst them. Monsters and magic devoured them in the Tasks, and gossip and competition followed shortly afterward to pick at their bones. Albus and Gellert felt like puppets amid the hubbub and speculation and refused to be swept up in its wake.

They shared between them an abiding respect for the symbolism of the Tournament; a symbolism they both agreed was being swallowed by the crowd’s roar for blood. The insatiable learner had found in the charismatic champion from Durmstrang someone whom he could speak to on a certain plain. A plain above the celebration of mere skill, where they could share a mutual appreciation for the deeper questions the Tasks in the Tournament were first conceived to answer. Questions about the marrow from which magic sprung, its applications beyond defense and practical use; quests for knowledge that were born in academia and grew to probe and expand the frontiers of wizard understanding.

These questions were what drove them to start meeting in secret. Meeting, because the concepts they discussed plumbed such depths that hours could pass by without either realizing it. In secret, because their statuses as Champion and Lateral of opposing schools might arouse accusations of treason that would ignite feuds in such a hysterical climate. Perhaps it was the physical exertion that allowed the thought to swim to the surface of his mind—Albus’ chest and shoulders burned now as he rowed the little boat under the long shadow of the bobbing ship—but his biggest fear, he found, was his connection with Gellert being clouded by other people’s conclusions. Requited or not his heart belonged to Mortimer, but a mind like Gellert’s, a mind so in sync with his own, was a rare find. Too strong to be threatened by gossip and games. Still, he had to be careful.

“You’re heavy,” Gellert remarked as he tugged Albus onto the main deck of the ship.  
  
“It seems my heart is made of stone this evening,” Albus replied, darkly.  
  
“My, my that’s mysterious,” Gellert teased.  
  
It still surprised Albus to see Gellert and know that he was beautiful. He couldn’t reconcile the mop of wavy blond hair and attentive blue eyes with the eclectic and mysterious brain that buzzed beneath them. Because their meetings had started out purely academic in nature, neither of them knew what to do when their personalities clashed or their inner desires surfaced in conversation. For now, they let it hang in the air between them like cobwebs.

They snuck quietly up the quarterdeck, but just as Albus made to use the ladders that led to the students’ cabins in the bowels of the ship, Gellert stopped him. “I’ve been upgraded,” he said slyly, “After my showing at the First Task the headmaster thought I should have rooms that more befit my talent and give me space to think and train.” He led Albus toward the stern to a hatch set with an iron ring that Gellert yanked open and lowered himself into. Albus followed happily, feeling like he was entering another world.

He found himself in a spacious cabin appointed in a luxurious French colonial style—all guilt armoires and useless sitting room arrangements. Mahogany and gold from ceiling to floor. The room featured a grand four poster bed the size of six Hogwarts four posters put together, a fireplace Albus could stand up in, and immense mullioned windows that overlooked the Hogwarts gates, the Forbidden Forest and the gamekeeper’s cottage, including the full scope of the lake. The moonlight shone brightly in, unfettered by fog.

“Congratulations are in order, it seems,” Albus trilled as he paced the spacious room, “Tell me, do you also use fiendfyre to light your candles at night?”

“I would if I could,” Gellert said, drawing his wand. Albus swallowed cautiously at the sight of it, until Gellert said “Incendio Deminutus,” causing a flame to spring to life on every candle in the place with a gentle pop. “I had you convinced of my wickedness for the merest minute, didn’t I?”

“Never crossed my mind, I swear,” Albus said jovially. He loved when Gellert’s prankster nature got the better of him. He found it enticing somehow.

“I hope you don’t count yourself among those who still condemn me for my performance in the First Task...” he said airily, crossing the room to a cabinet protruding from the opposite wall. Albus got the impression Gellert was attempting to telegraph that he didn’t care either way, which was very unlike him. He followed his instinct.

“What if I said I did?”

Gellert paused in front of the open cabinet full of drinks, his back to Albus, weighing his response. “I’d wonder why someone who knows so much and seeks so far would limit himself in such a damaging way,” he said gravely.

Albus’ mood began to lift. It felt good to have an influence on someone. “I don’t, you know,” he said, “condemn you, that is.” At this Gellert turned to face him, arms outstretched against the wall, the picture of ease and relaxation. “I’ll admit to you, and only you, that I’ve performed dark magic myself.”

“You surprise me,” he said, though he didn’t look it.

“As I’ve written to you, I’m currently delving into the study of dragon’s blood and its magical properties. And in my experiments with dragon hides, it being one of the most sternly magical substances on earth, I am often called upon to employ the Cruciatus Curse to cut my samples to size. Nothing else will do, in fact.”

“How is your research progressing,” asked Gellert, interestedly, pulling goblets off a shelf. Albus swallowed, “I’ll be making advances soon. In fact, I have something to show you.” “You—you do?” Gellert stuttered, taken aback. And when Albus pulled the vial of dragon’s blood from his pocket Gellert’s eyes surged with excitement. “Do you realize you’re holding one of the sources of all magic right in your hand?”

“It’s been bouncing around in my pocket all afternoon! I couldn’t wait for you to see it.”

“Forget me, this will be the source of groundbreaking work. You should be celebrating yourself.” Gellert noted the effort it took for Albus to smile. “Where is your head tonight, my friend?” He asked, uncorking a bottle.

“You have wine?” Albus countered, impressed.  
  
“Answer mine and I’ll answer yours.”  
  
He hesitated for a second, considering. The prodding nature of Gellert’s questions and conversation, if a bit bold and invasive, belied a deep interest in the behaviors of other people. When he liked someone, he allowed himself to be engrossed by them completely, taking them into himself as much as people felt taken in by him. Unlike Mortimer’s cool gaze and suave manner, it was Gellert’s insatiable hunger to solve one’s inner puzzles that made one want to oblige.

“My best friend in the world confessed his love to me.” The words were foreign when spoken. They lived better as a concept in the mind.

Gellert raised his eyebrows, “Well, we're in luck. This, in fact, is wine. And that news deserves a toast.”

“I don’t love him back.”

His eyebrows rose, if possible, even higher. He hastily poured the wine from the goblet back into its decanter, making a show of splashing it everywhere and making a mess. The laughter that issued forth from Albus turned him inside out. Gellert laughed too, and soon they wore twin smiles, both aware they were breaking new ground with each other. Albus, for his part, felt exhilarated. Ready to discover how something like this might work between them.

“Does your heart belong to another?”  
  
“I think so, anyway.”  
  
“Would you allow me a guess?”  
  
Albus tossed his hair off his face with a bitter laugh, exasperated. “Unbeknownst to me, I seem to be entirely transparent when it comes to matters of the heart, so, please. I invite you. Guess.”

“Your Champion. Mortimer,” Gellert said after a beat. They locked eyes now. Thus far in their correspondence, they had not ventured into specifics about significant others. This was a test. The silence finally broke when Gellert jumped first, “I can see how it would be difficult to resist his charms. I can only speak of him as a wizard by his performance in the Tournament and, forgive me, he leaves much to be desired on that front.”

“To each his own, is all I’ll say,” Albus replied in a light tone.

“I salute your loyalty. But as I say, on other fronts, Mortimer is quite strong. Though your judgment of his character may be slightly off balance.”

“I thought you could only speak of him as a Champion,” Albus said. Willing him to give the answer he suddenly wanted to hear.

“Precisely. A boy that handsome is too busy gallivanting to have thought to use a Conjunctivitis Curse on a Chimera, let alone perform it so flawlessly without some extensive hours of training,” his voice softened, “I’ve come to know you to be a giving person, Albus. He’s abusing your talents to prop up his victories.”

Albus laughed again, glancing out the windows at the shimmering lake below. “That is exactly, to the letter, what Doge said to me.”

“The friend you cannot love.”

“Yes.”  
  
“Could you love me, do you think?”  
  
Albus looked down to hide his blushing. His answer came to him far too quickly and he didn’t want to give Gellert the satisfaction of knowing it. “That’s a bold question”  
  
“I’m always saying what I shouldn't say,” Gellert said proudly, “in fact, I usually say what I really think—a great mistake nowadays.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Have I made a misstep here?”  
  
“No, no. I just needed time to consider the question.”  
  
“Your verdict?”  
  
“I believe I could, yes.”  
  
Gellert’s eyes were greedy and lascivious. It made Albus greedy, too. Gellert breached the gap between them with a single step forward, “I wonder what you would do if you could imagine the full prospect of my most daring hopes.”

“But I can’t just jump like this.”  
  
“And I cannot wait another second longer.”  
  
He uncorked the vial of dragon’s blood and poured a crimson pool into his palm. Before Albus could stop him Gellert reached down, and Albus felt himself going rigid in Gellert’s cold hand as he pulled on him, the blood staining his ivory skin a ruddy violet. Their mouths met suddenly, gnawing at lips and jaws, giving way to tongues sharp and searching. These eager, if inexpert, fumblings drew them crushingly close and lead them on their inexorable way. Onward. Downward.

The veins on Albus’ neck stretched taught like wires as Gellert plucked at them with his teeth, and from him there escaped a sigh. It was involuntary. A weighty desire that had made a nest at the base of Albus’ loins reared up now, awakened, swelling until it finally rolled out of him in a voice nothing like his own.

“Put your mouth on me.”

And Gellert dropped from his sight, knees thudding dully on the planks. His warm breath narrowed like a funnel of steam until Albus felt engulfed in a satin darkness that completely unmoored him. It was like he’d disappeared. Endless, was the feeling. And this supple darkness seemed to go on and on, and so did he. On and on.

That was down.

Then, a puckered grip, tight and oval, tugged at him with unbearable pressure. A suffocating sensuousness that slid slowly along, setting sounds within him loose that felt like they were utterly transforming him; lights popping in the corners of his eyes like fireflies.

That was up.  
  
And his world could only be made of those two directions now.  
  
Up. Down.  
  
Up. Down.  
  
Up and down. Pushing into the hollow. Hands clutching at cherub curls.  
  
Somehow he’d dropped onto the bed, writhing, strangling himself with the sheets. He was unleashed. Reckless. Aroused and enraged. Helplessly trapped between teeth, and the danger and pleasure of it exploded in his mind. He was impatient for the other side of this, where everything was brighter and nothing ever hurt and his whole body could remain like this: torn open, laid bare.

He palmed Gellert’s skull, helping him along.  
  
Up. Down.  
  
“As long as I do not think of the edge, I will not be pulled toward it,” he thought, and cast wildly about for distractions to make these sensations last forever. But the only thing he could see was the odd contrast of Gellert’s golden hands as they roved over his own alabaster torso, clawing and caressing all at once. The way Doge’s muddy brown eyes watered at the corners when he looked up at him with that unrequited adoration they both kept at bay to preserve their friendship. The delicate rim of bone above the mounds of Mortimer’s heavy chest as he clasped Albus by the shoulders with powerful hands, thanking him profusely for absolutely nothing.

His excitement was close to pain. Agony, really, for he was young still, and tender to touch in ways he would never be again. He was on the edge of a deep black chasm down which he knew he had no choice but to launch himself.

Up. Down.  
  
Up and down.  
  
Faster.  
  
And wet now, like a flood. A font of it. Flowing.  
  
Seconds on end passed, filled with nothing but soft sounds. He opened his eyes: It was a cabin on a ship in a lake in the night in total silence. He was wearing his school robes and lying on a bed, but his muscles felt slippery and languid. Used. Even his own hands seemed changed to him. And when Gellert’s face filled Albus’ view he looked different too. Shirtless and tan, hair askew, indigo stains from the dragon’s blood drying in his dimples.

He had the gall, after all that, to look innocent. Like he’d done nothing more than eat a handful of blueberries that didn’t belong to him. Precocious. They were both rubbed raw and useless now and they accepted this fate, fitting themselves together like puzzle pieces and laying in the chilly moonlight for much longer than either thought was safe. They knew nothing about each other and they had always known each other.

 

*          *          *

 

Rowing back to shore felt like less of a chore to Albus on his return trip to the castle. He was reinvigorated and focused like never before, riding high on the afterglow of the night’s events. Everything in his mind was screaming a warning of discovery and disaster, but there was a new answer now, because everything in his heart filled him with warmth and expectation.

He had done a forbidden thing, and yet, here he stood unscathed.

He would do it again.

Soon.

Docking his boat on the beach, he trudged through the pebbles to the rough-hewn stairs palming his pockets for his wand, only to realize upon finding it that he was missing his vial of dragon’s blood. He whispered a troubled, “Lumos,” and set about retracing his steps across the beach, finding nothing. Only when he looked back up in desperation did he catch the warm glow of Gellert’s windows on the Durmstrang ship winking out.

He had left it there.

He’d gathered his scattered clothes but lost in the excitement, forgotten to ask for the vial back.

He would get it the next time they spoke, that is if Gellert hadn’t already sent it back by the morning.


End file.
